


Is living worth it?

by Christian_the_bluefrog



Series: Shiping Yourself [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Art, Depression, FTM, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Supportive Sam Winchester, Transgender, You are transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christian_the_bluefrog/pseuds/Christian_the_bluefrog
Summary: I wrote this for me, but I'm posting it on the off chance that someone wants to read it.You are a suicidal trans man who is saved by Sam, and it seems he's made it his personal mission to help you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DO NOT READ if you are triggered by suicide attempts. This story is based off some of my personal experiences and can be upsetting to those who are not in the right state of mind to read things like this.

Every fiber of your being is shaking with sorrow. You look at the motel mirror and it's wrong. All of it is fucking wrong. Those breasts are still there despite the binder, the curve of your hips, your soft face. You punch the wall, feel the dry wall crumbling beneath your hand. It's a familiar feeling, and the pain that follows draws your attention to it. It helps.

You need that pain to distract yourself. Life itself is pain for you. Every breath wrong. It's something that very few people understand.

You want to claw at your skin until it falls off because at least then you might hate yourself less. At least you wouldn't look like 'her'. 

You've cut your hair, and wear a binder. You wear a packer, but nothing works; nothing stops it. Your heart condition makes it impossible for you to get hormone correcorrection therapy. 

If you can't have a life worth living you decided that you could at least try and help other people live normal lives. That's why you became a hunter; but three years later and you're still here. Between your heart problems and everything that goes bump in the night, you're truly surprised that you're still kicking.

Death by monster; going down hunting. It seemed noble, but the thoughts are crawling out of the recesses of your mind now. Worse then they ever have. You started to be reckless on purpose this time. If you made the right-wrong move you might not even feel it. It could be over.

You had been psyching yourself up for the wearwolf fight. There were four of them against one of you. 

Adrenaline managed to keep you going, it's hard to go against the instinct to survive. You weren't compleatly ready to die; but at least then it wouldn't hurt anymore. With two left you swung your silver knife across the older male's throat. The last wolf charged and you. You were ready.

You closed your eyes. You were exhausted, and not just from the fight. Life held nothing, and the world has other hunters to keep it safe. You could be selfish. You can rest.

You're knocked off your feet, but you don't feel claws. There are hands, large callused hands on your chest from where this person had pushed you away. You look back in time to see the wolf fall at the hands of another hunter in a red plaid shirt. 

Remembering the body on top of you, you pushed him off and jumped to your feet. You wanted nothing to do with them, and you were furious. They just pushed you away from a choice you were set on. You were ready to die.

You started to walk away and you felt the same strong hand grip your shoulder. 

"Thanks for the assistance, but the job's done. I'm leaving, so should you." You turned, shaking his hand off. 

"Yeah the jobs done, but why did you try to take on four wolves at once?" The man pushed his long hair out of his face. 

"Yeah, are you trying to get killed?" The shorter man joined the conversation. You winced at the phrase, because in all honesty, you were. 

"None of your damn business." You turned around and started off. Your motel is just down the road and you pray they won't follow you; but they do. 

"I'm Sam, this is my brother, Dean." The taller one, Sam, caught up to you; matching step for step.

"Y/N" You say frustrated. 

"You seriously shouldn't take on stuff that big alone. That was a pack; two hunter job minimum." Only two more minutes of walking. You could make it two minutes, and then you'd be free. 

"I know what I can handle." Dean caught up as you spoke. 

"We're not trying to be dicks about it, but just because you got your big girl pants on, doesn't mean you have enough experience to make that kinda judgment."

You stoped cold in your tracks, literally in the middle of the parking lot ten feet from your door.

"I. Am. Not. A. Girl." Your voice is low, but hard. There is a hurricane inside that started to thrash and threatened to lash out. Without looking at either of them you practically joged to your door and slamed it behind you.

Now you're here, in this crappy bathroom, a reminder of what you are freshly burned into your mind. 

Why should you have to spend another minute in this pain. It's an emotional pain that rings so loudly and crashes so violently that it's turned physical. You hardly catch yourself by the sink as you slip to the floor. 

Tears roll down your cheeks and you desperately try to rub them away. You're done. This needs to be the last time. 

'Real men don't cry.' Your father's voice rumbles through your head. 

'There are two genders, and you don't get to choose.'

'You're just sick in the head.'

'Maybe a real man should show you how much of pussy you are.'

'Your too sensitive to be a man.'

'God doesn't make mistakes.' 

The voices of your family, peers, and strangers from the past buzz around and you stop trying to hold back. Sobs erupt as you pull your knees to your chest and start to bang the side of your head against the wall you're leaning against. 

The depression medication had stopped working long ago before you became a hunter. Honestly you thought it was just a placebo effect when you'd started it anyway. Anything to make these feeling go away.

'This will help with the depression.'  
'These will help with sleeping.'  
'These techniques will help with the dysphoria.'

Nothing works. Even in your dreams they call you by your birth name. They use it as an insult; a weapon to deepen the putrid wounds in your will to live. But that's just it isn't it. 

The wound is beyond saving at this point. It can fester no further. It's dead, and you're just now noticing because you've been too busy hiding from yourself. 

You'll have no one to miss you; no one to mourn you.

You crawl to the tub and pick up the cheep complimentary razor. The wearwolf would have been better, all you had to do was stand there. 

You don't have to use it, but maybe if you hold it, it'll feel real. Maybe if you hold it, you'll change your mind. Letting the wolf kill you is one thing, but the pain is still there. Suicide would end the pain, but it's not the easy way. Letting the wolf kill you would have been easy.

You slip the blade free and start to twirl it in your fingers. You stop and bring it down to your forearm, using the edge to shave a patch of arm hair off. The light feminine hair. It's not true what they say about it growing back thicker. 

You turn your arm over and just let the blade rest on your skin between your fingers. You're not going to do it; you want to. Maybe if you just hold it there, maybe that'll be enough. You don't want to talk yourself out of it, but you do. You could rest. It would be over. 

 

It would be over. You could rest. It would be over.

 

 

You've never cut before. You've pounded your head into the wall, you've bitten your fingers until they've bled; but you've never cut. It'll be a new pain. A first and last time, you suppose.

All you have to do is move. A few inches can take the pain away. You could sleep. It would be so easy to just glide the tip up. You're not sure if one arm will do it, best to do both if you decide to. Is it still an 'if'? It feels more like a 'when'.

All you can think about are those words in your head. 'I am not a girl.' You chant them over and over. The tip of the razor bites into your skin. It's nothing. You would think your hands would be shaking. They aren't. Every detail about this moment is clear. It could be the last choice you ever make. 

Then there is a knock on your door. The do not disturb sign is up. Who the hell?

"Hey, Y/N!" It's Sam. Shit. Your arm is bleeding, and now you don't have time to think. Do it now or you might loose your nerve. You can end it now. It can be over.

"Y/N?" 

"Go away!" Shit. Why did you answer? There's another knock on the door; louder this time. You're still on the floor with the tip of the razor resting just under your skin. Another knock. On three you decide. KNOCK. One. KNOCK. Two. The door is kicked down just in time for Sam to see you run the blade from your wrist up to the inside of your elbow. Before you can switch hands to do the other side, Sam is wrestling the blade from you.

"Stop!" You struggle to reach the freedom he's taking from you. He tosses the blade and grabs you by the waist. Everything starts to slow down. You hear him yell to his brother mixed with the sound of fabric being ripped. 

You look up at the panic on this stranger's face. Why does he care? Who are you to him?

There is a sharp pain in your arm that pulls you from the fuzzy bliss you'd found. The world comes back and you can see Sam holding pressure on your arm while his brother sorts through a medical kit. 

"Drink." He places a half empty bottle of Jack in your good hand. Why not? You start to chug. The burn doesn't do shit compared to the other stimuli you've got going on. 

You empty the bottle in four gulps and drop your head back. You're starting to get cold, but the fuzzy is coming back and you smile. The sinsation of pain changes in your arm, and you can see Dean starting to stitch it. 

You reach to push him away, but you can barely lift your good arm. There's a slap to your face.

"You stay with us, you understand!" Sam was trying to keep you awake. All you want is rest. You close your eyes and receive another blow, harder this time. You couldn't care less about the pain. All of it is mixing and filling your whole body, but you won't be able to let go with him hitting you like that. You try to keep your eyes open. 

Dean made it halfway up your arm. The fuzzy is pulling you deeper, and you close your eyes. This time the slap doesn't make you open them again.


	2. Chapter 2

When you open your eyes next everything is foggy. You're too week to sit up, but in your failed attempt to do so you startle Sam; who has apparently been reading by your bed side.

"Hey." His voice is soft. You scoff at him and turn to take in your new surroundings. This isn't a hospital, but there is practically nothing around. The chair, desk, and bed are about it. The walls are bare and a wooden door is open across from you.

"You up to talking?" You take a deep breath.

"Sure, why the hell would I not want to talk to the man who abducted me." Your words came out dripping with sarcasm. 

"Well we weren't going to just leave you there." His tone went down ever so slightly. 

"Why? You shouldn't have done anything. You should have just left me alone." Fuck, the tears were coming back. 

"Y/N, I walked in on you trying to kill yourself." 

"And?" 

"What do you mean 'and'?!"

"I mean, what of it? Who gives you the right to say I'm not allowed to take my life. It's MY life." You force yourself up and realize your arm is completely healed. 

"We have a friend- who uh..." 

"My name is Castiel. I am an angel." A dark haired man crossed the threshold with Dean trailing behind him. 

"Well thanks for destroying my hard work. I'd like to say it was good to meet you, but under these circumstances, I hope you can understand." You swing your legs over the bed and freeze. Your binder is gone. You can feel the pull of your chest and it brings all of the fucking thoughts back. 

You grab the blanket to wrap around your torso. It provides a minuscule amount of comfort as you frantically search for your own clothing. You've been changed into sweat pants and a very large, white shirt. Sam seems to catch on to what's happening. He ushers the other men out and closes the door. 

"Give me back my fucking binder." You growl. 

"It was covered in blood. I washed it. I can get it from the dryer in a few minutes." 

"You can't put it in the dryer! It will shrink. So now I've lost half of the things that keep me s-" You stop as a thought slams and crashes into your mind. You lock eyes with Sam.

"I changed you." There was guilt on his face. "You were covered in blood and I didn't know how long you'd be out. It's dangerous to wear..." He trailed off. 

You reach down to readjust yourself only to realize that your packer is missing too, but thank God you're still in your own boxers.

"You stole my FUCKING DICK!" You stand up with a slight wobble and marched over to him, blanket still covering your chest. 

"It fell out." He practly whispered.

"You are going to give me back my dick, and my binder. Then you are going to escort me to the door where you can promptly kiss my ass before I leave." You start to loose your balance after taking a few steps, and you can see Sam behind you, his arm reaching. 

You dash forward to avoid it and trip on the blanket. You go down head first with a thud, and the other men come running back. Sam's trying to help you up and Castiel is reaching for your head and it's too much. Everything is too fucking much all at once. So you scream. Telling them to back off isn't working. 

You let out an ear-piercing scream, that burns and hurts your throat. They back off but you can't stop screaming, until your voice gives out. 

You get to your knees but keep your eyes to the floor, and there is no more noise. You get up, blanket still around you and push past Sam back into the room. You lock the door after slamming it shut. You can't think, everything's spinning and you slide down the door.

"She obviously doesn't want to be here." You can hear Dean through the door. 

"He; He doesn't want to be here, but we can't just let him go if he's just going to try again." Sam says. 

"Well, can't you just heal him? Take away the depression or whatever is making him want to die?" You sigh at Dean's words. 

"It is not that simple, Dean. Depression is not something I can heal." You hear Cas say.

"No, it's not. It can take years of work and therapy to deal with it. A lot of people live their whole lives fighting it." After hearing Sam you decide you don't want to listen anymore. So you go climb back in bed. They'll have to let you go eventually, so you'll just have to wait them out. 

 

~<3~

 

You last two days before taking the tray of breakfast that's been left at your door. There's a bathroom connected to your room and you've found paper and pencils in the desk to keep you busy. 

"Brought you breakfast." You hear Sam through the door. He is always the one to bring the food, and he always announces the meal. You wait until he leaves before opening the door and taking the tray.

There's a red apple and oatmeal, with a glass of orange juice. You eat at the desk and put the tray back when you're done. You don't eat lunch, but you're too hungry to not take the amazing smelling pasta and garlic bread left for dinner. 

You start to eat everything that's brought to you, but you've run out of paper on day five. You've added as much detail as you possibly can and filled the art to the edges. 

It's close to dinner and you're not anywhere close to giving in. You pick your favorite drawing; the one that depicts how you see yourself in your head and ad a text bubble. 

 

___  
/ I \  
| need |  
| more |  
| paper|  
< ______/

 

You slip it out with the lunch tray. A few minutes after you hear the tray being taken, you hear footsteps and two notebooks are slid under the door, but there are no more footsteps. Sam probably wasn't leaving yet. Then something else was slid under the door. 

It's a drawing. One stick figure on each side of a line. The left one had it's own speach bubble.

 

____  
/ I \  
| wish |  
| you'd |  
|come |  
| out. |  
< ____/

 

You don't slide anything back.

 

~<3~

 

This mornings drawing is of an oak tree, overgrown with moss. There is a wooden pourch swing hanging from it, the kind that can hold two people. The swing is empty. You leave it on the breakfast tray. 

You find colored pencils with your lunch tray.

You leave a rainbow at sunset over a pond after dinner.

 

~<3~ 

 

The next day you can see a shadow under the door. Sam must be sitting with the tray outside. 

You slip a picture of Sam that you drew last night under, but you're not going to take the tray with him out there. You've thought about leaving these last few days. You don't think you'll stay around much longer. It's been long enough, you don't think Sam will follow you. Maybe tonight.

You hear a peice of paper tear from a note book and then it's slid under the door. It's not a stick figure this time, it's two crude looking people sitting crisscrossed with a line between them. One has long lines for hair, it's says

'you're not alone.' 

You hold the paper in your hands when an idea hits. You add a bubble over the figure of you.

'You don't know me.' 

Then slip it back. This is so much easier then talking; you hate your voice. It light and high pitched. Wrong. 

The paper is slid back.

'I don't need to know you to be here for you. But I'd like to know you.' 

You spend the next few hours exchanging pictures with little notes, and the next one you get is a picture of the tray he leaves you. There's a sandwich with bacon peices sticking out of it, and half a tomato cut up on the side. You're starving. 

You feel stupid but you slip a picture of you on one side of the door and the tray alone on the other. There's a sad face slid back but you can hear his footsteps as he walks away and back with a tray before leaving again. 

He stays away until you've put your dinner tray out later that day and you've been drawing more detailed pictures to send him. Then a though hits you; you're actually enjoying this. 

This is honestly the first time in a long time that you've had fun doing something; and come to think of it, your dysphoria hasn't been bothering you. 

A slip of paper comes under the door and it's the best drawing he's done so far. It's of himself sitting at a table drawing. He has a focused face, and you can tell that the pencil is a pencil, not just a stick. It makes you chuckle. 

You slid back the first drawing you made after lunch. It's of him cooking in a kitchen. There are photos hung on the fridge, and he is chopping green peppers by the stove. You left one of the cabinets open to draw neatly stacked plates and cups inside. 

There are containers on the counter and a pot on the stove. The walls are a soft yellow and he is wearing dark jeans and a gray t-shirt. You can hear the swipe of the paper from the floor as he picks it up, but the other side is still. You can't hear the subtle sound of the pencil scratching against the paper. There's just stillness. 

After a few minutes a peice of paper is slid under the door. There isn't a drawing this time; just a sentence.

'I want to understand.' 

You let out a deep sigh because now it's serious. Now the fun is gone. You debate going back to the desk and not responding, but you don't want to. Even if the mood of the conversation has changed, you don't want him to leave. So you start to draw.

p

You draw him. You give him only one arm, and a gross lumpy tumor on his hip sticking out from under his shirt. You don't add any color besides the red veins in his eyes, and the subtle blue of his tears. It's no where near how the dysphoria actually feels, but it's the best you can do right now. 

This time you don't even hear the sound of the paper being picked up. He doesn't seem to know what to do. You don't think you'd know how to respond either. 

The next drawing you get is of you and him sitting on a couch eating icecream. There are bottles of different kinds of toppings and a movie playing in front of you. It's an invitation, probably one he'd done earlier judging by the details and quality. 

You've been in this room for nine days, and all you've had for entertainment is drawing. It's a really tempting offer. Alnother picture is pushed under the door, it's a picture of you in a binder and your packer on a tray outside the door. It's a drawing of your dick on a tray outside the door.

You can't help but laugh and you can hear Sam laughing on the other side. He slides one last drawing under before you hear him walk away. It's a map of what must be the building you're in. It honest to god looks like a treasure map; dotted lines, a red X, and compass in the left corner to boot.

You open the door and sure enough your packer and a new binder, the same brand and size as your old one sit on a tray. You take them and close the door.

A few minutes later you find Sam at the X which turns out to be a side room with a huge TV and a couch. 

"Hi." You clear your throat. He has his back turned setting up a full ice cream buffet. Everything from cherries to that carmel syrup that hardens around the ice cream is neatly lined up on a side table. 

"Hi." He turns around. You hadn't seen him smile before, it's cute. He steps aside and holds out a bowl which you take and fill full of your favorite ice cream and toppings, before sitting down on the very edge of the couch. 

He opens Netflix and hands you the remote before making himself a small bowl and sitting on the very edge of the opposite side. 

You've decided to watch something you've already seen but still enjoy. You look over at Sam who smiles approvingly with a nod. This isn't as awkward as you thought it'd be. You kinda feel like Sam isn't a stranger anymore. You may even like getting to know him better.


End file.
